Knacking up rope
into taut spirals
to belay into a chasm,
navel of the earth
spitting fumes
otherdimensional.
Streaks across
an atmosphere buoyed:
draconine hope
frothing up into
an amphora of sky.
I am the rider
of the winds;
I am the winds
as they are ridden.
The rope, dragon of life,
sky-potter,
and the opalescent vessel.
Bidden to hold
unfurling storm
and snake
through paths of glass.
There is nothing
to contain
the gentle infinities
of roots exploding
through the heart,
only commiseration with
endless mountains of cloud.
A fathomless aerie
stretching cobalt claws
in directions opposed.
One twists into the earth,
another,
into heaven's sweet repose.
Flung on the wheel
of the aquarian age,
Embalming the clear sky
in murals of ecstasy,
and slashes of rage.
Days of solitude
and celebration
are heaved onto the clay
with intricate strokes.
Agony and joy the gloss,
fear and love the glaze.
The fire of the truth
to make them firm,
shapely flaws
set by a gaze.
I am the sculptor
of the urn;
I am the urn
upon the wheel.
The steed, the bridle,
thund'ring hooves,
stamp the land
with prints of me.
All these letters
of my heart I write,
to turn the tears to steam.
That they might soar
into the void,
and reach beyond
into your dream.
@d-pend on 6/4/18